


La Danse Macabre

by Calleva



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27090817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calleva/pseuds/Calleva
Summary: The Cardinal receives a mysterious request for a meeting at the Chapel of the Dead at midnight, on Hallowe'en.He is a rationalist and does not believe in the supernatural. Why should he be afraid?Perhaps he should be....
Comments: 9
Kudos: 6





	La Danse Macabre

_________

He felt he could live forever.

How strange that not so long ago, a poisoned relic had weakened him to the point of death and he had been fearful of what lay beyond for him. 'The Four Last Things' which none could avoid: death, judgement, heaven and hell had briefly had a new terror for him. "The Kingdom of Heaven is only a dream" Milady had scoffed. He had watched her standing at the window, the light shining on her young unblemished skin. She exuded life - and so, now, did he. Strange how medieval superstitions had returned to haunt him in his illness. The Cardinal shook his head in contempt. He must focus: France needed him, and he must always do whatever served his country's interests. Any benefit to himself on the side was incidental, and well deserved.

He was in two minds about the note in his hand. "Come to the Chapelle des Morts on All Hallows' Eve at midnight, to learn something that will greatly benefit you". It was unsigned. He shrugged. If someone was trying to frighten him it wouldn't work. This was the seventeenth century, the earth was round and death and sickness were a result of old age, ignorance or bad luck, nothing more. The Chapelle des Morts made him shudder only because it was dusty and smelled of the rotting bones lying there, mingled with the miasma from the graves around it. He had only once visited it, as a young priest assigned to saying the November prayers for the dead. His distaste had been soon relieved by the very warm embraces of his mistress. What was her name? Elise? He wasn't sure which one it had been...

He stepped out of the coach and regarded the Chapelle des Morts, lit dimly in the moonlight. He sighed - he had much rather stay at home in front of a good fire, with a pleasant glass of cognac and a good book. He shrugged closer into his warm cloak and opened the metal gate. Its creak sounded like a warning, which he ignored. If he stayed away, it would only make him seem weak and supersititious and he was neither. Besides Jules the coachman and the three armed men in the coach would keep watch for any living threats to his safety. As for the other - he had no fears of anything unearthly for the simple reason that this life is all there is. 

He trod silently along the path; ironically like an embodiment of death, dressed in his usual black with his dark cloak fluttering behind him in the chill breeze. He pulled his scarf closer to his mouth; this place did stink. The graveyard was over-full, with many bodies buried over each other and many too near the surface. He thought briefly of his own planned monument of white marble, a noble structure that would mark his burial place near the altar of the cathedral. People would visit it and pray for his soul until the world ended. Unlike the wretches here; who knew who they were, who remembered them now?

He pushed open the door of the chapel and coughed. The air was stale with dust and decay. The little chapel was lit dimly by the few candles left by visitors. Memorial slabs were set into the wall and a few plain dark tombs abutted them. The more ornate of the memorial stones had the symbols of death carved into them. A bas relief of a skull leered at him and his lack of faith, the crossed long bones seeming to point to a heaven he no longer believed in. 

It seemed a couple of people had also had the insane idea of coming to pray at this auspicious time. He was tempted to tell them to go home, that they could serve no one, least of all the dead, by coming to such an unwholesome place on a cold night like this. Fools. He coughed again and went to the front line of pews, genuflecting showily and taking a kneeler. Whoever had summoned him here must see he was not afraid. If they were playing with him, he would make them pay dearly.

He heard a distant bell tolling the hour; midnight. As if on cue, the other people slowly trailed out, perhaps also intimidated by his appearance. He intended that people should fear him. Richelieu clasped his hands and bowed his head, a display of reverence for whoever might be watching. Let's get this charade over and go to our warm homes, like decent Frenchmen. Silence wrapped around him like a great cloak, enveloping him in peace. What could happen that his men could not protect him from? The sanctuary light glowed through its dull purple glass indicating that Jesus was here under the guise of bread, locked away like a prisoner in the tabernacle. "God, if you are really here, forgive my unbelief..."

His thoughts began to stray, he needed to distract himself as the chill began to bite at his bones. Annoyance washed over him as he began to think he had been duped. He raised his eyes and stared at a line of carved skeletons, capering in a line - la danse macabre. 

To his surprise they suddenly seemed to move, although his mind told him this was impossible. Their grinning mouths snapped open and shut as their needle like feet trod over daisies and dead maidens. Oh what nonsense! A low rumble and the whole chapel seemed to be shaking beneath him. He shut his eyes to rid himself of the dancing bones. His head spun and it seemed to him that he was standing at the threshold of this place, staring at the graves as the ground shook. Slowly they began to heave, clods of earth rose and crumbled away as long-dead inhabitants began to emerge into the cold moonlight. An owl sounded and flew noiselessly overhead, looking for vermin prey amid the opening graves. Richelieu looked across at the gate, but his coach wasn't there. Where were they? Jules would suffer for this!

Fear began to rise in him - he was now quite alone with who knew what emerging into the fetid air. At that moment everything stood still, the figures of the dead no longer moving. He felt, rather than saw, half-rotting faces, bone protruding from strands of flesh hanging like rags. "We are the dead" he thought he heard them say, "the ones you have sent to our graves, unmarked, unlamented by our loved ones." "Adele" whispered one, and he saw clumps of her once lustrous fair hair, now damply clinging to her skull. A blue eyeball stared accusingly at him from its socket. She had been so beautiful! Her fine white teeth, now bared in a rictus of death, taunted him for his hard heart. A hole opened in her head and a thick black liquid oozed from it. She had been shot twice in the head. Just as the horror of the spectacle was overwhelming him, his vision changed to a slow procession of various bodies. Some in uniform, barely distinguishable among the tatters and dirt. "I died of poison in your prison." A once-young face now hideous in death reminded him of the young soldier he had promised freedom to, while offering a deadly drink. Lord, there were so many, all joining in a line, like the danse macabre. He shut his eyes, blotting out the hellish vision, worse than any nightmare he'd ever had.

A soft breeze wafted over him and he opened his eyes onto a scene bare of movement. The corpses gone, just the empty mounds a reminder of their appearance. He saw again in his mind the very much alive figure of Milady, by the window of his sick room, "The kingdom of heaven is only a dream...."

"I've done terrible things. My account with God is not yet balanced," He had replied. He thought of this now, "I am afraid that if I die, I shall go to hell."

Milady's beautiful face slowly lost its lustre and a putrefying leer of death replaced it. He was not aware that she had died so this must be a glimpse of what would come. He gave an enormous shudder, convulsing with nausea as the smell of that damp chapel once again reached his senses. 

He lifted his head slowly from the cradle of his arms. His joints ached. He must have fallen asleep! Well, that note must have been a trick after all. Relieved, he stumbled to his feet, wondering why he could barely see. A faint thread of moonlight came in through the narrow window high in the wall. He realised the candles and the sanctuary light had gone out. Best leave this godless place!

He pushed through the door and noted to his relief that the coach was still there. My but it was cold! He found himself unable to move, frozen to the spot. At least the graves were thankfully undisturbed, their stones standing at angles like broken teeth. What a dream! He sighed and as he began to move, in his mind he saw Milady's face, impassively beautiful, her mouth opening to speak, showing that pretty gap in her front teeth;

"Hell? We're already in hell!"

_________

Christophe's tavern was filled with an assortment of souls escaping the cold of a winter's night, shutting out the dark with ale and a warm fire.

Athos took a long pull on his tankard. Aramis noted that his hand shook a little.  
"Not afraid of this night, surely?" He patted his friend on the shoulder, half-jokingly.  
"Nah, we seen death already, it has no fears for any of us." Porthos chuckled.  
Athos shook his head, thinking, "Indeed, but if there is any justice there is another who will get the fright of his life tonight..." 

And he gave a slow smile.

**Author's Note:**

> The Danse Macabre, also called the Dance of Death, was a medieval allegory showing skeletons dancing with the figure of Death. It reminded people that death comes to all, from the lowest to the highest in society.
> 
> La Chapelle des Morts - 'The Chapel of the Dead' - is not based on any real place in Paris, although such do exist.


End file.
